White Blank Page
by tala-hiding
Summary: Coming from vastly different lives, Erik, Christine, and Raoul start on a clean slate as they attend Cathedral College. Friendship, love, and music bind and twist their lives in ways that none of them could have ever imagined. ALW Phantom of the Opera. Modern/AU. Updated regularly.
1. Dearly Departed

_Well, this is a new fandom. *waves sheepishly* Hello._

_So I've been obssessed with Phantom of the Opera for the past few weeks, ever since I saw it (for the second time!) onstage. I don't live anywhere near Broadway or West End, so it's only when a touring company decides to make a pitstop in the Philippines that I find myself able to go to the theatre. So that's where it started._

_Lately, I've been watching the POTO 25th Anniversary DVD on a loop and I've fallen in love with Sierra Boggess and Ramin Karimloo (especially Ramin). So this story is partly inspired by their portrayals, as well as Hadley Fraser's Raoul. I've always wanted to see how these three characters - Erik, Christine, and Raoul - would relate to each other if Erik didn't live in the cellars and wasn't a crazed madman and Raoul wasn't a spineless fop. At the center of any POTO adaptation is the love Erik and Raoul had for Christine, and how Christine chooses, and (most importantly) why she chooses that man._

_The friendship here is partly based on Ramin and Hadley and Sierra's friendship offstage, and so you'll find that a lot of their performances on Sheytoons and also backstage videos will make their way into this story. But at the end, this is the Phantom's story. So let the curtain rise, and I hope you enjoy the show._

* * *

Erik stared at the twin tombstones in front of him. The mottled gray stones were smooth and polished to a shine. Someone had been tending to the graves even in his absence. He watched the small candles flickering in the crystal votives that stood to either sides of the tombstones, casting a warm orange glow and fighting off the darkening twilight. Above the tombstones rose a figure of a stone angel, lovingly crafted. The angel's blind eyes turned towards the horizon, its slender arms outstretched in benediction, its wings unfolded as if she was prepared to take flight.

The young man wrapped his peacoat around his thin shoulders tighter. He read the engravings on the tombstones again, hoping that the words would change.

_Marcus and Madeleine Destler_

_Beloved father_

_Beloved mother_

_Death has never parted their love_

Below their names were the dates of their birth. Marcus Destler was in his prime when he died; Madeleine Destler was ten years his junior and, by all accounts, a ravishing beauty. Erik's eyes skimmed the dates and stared at the date of their death.

_August 24, 1996_

_May the angels sing them sweet music all of their days_

Erik snorted. His grandmother was always fond of such verbose, old-fashioned language. His hand went up to brush the stray strands of dark hair from his eyes, his fingers bypassing the smooth, unremarkable surface of the half-mask that he wore over the left side of his face. He grimaced as the wind picked up, rustling the autumn leaves that coated the clipped green grass of the cemetery.

"Well, I'll have you know that I will be attending university this fall, as per your command Father," he muttered to the gravestones. "It's a waste of my time, and you know this, but as you're dead, I do not think I can do much about your last will and testament." Erik rolled his eyes. He knew his father meant well, in as much as a businessman overseeing a vast fortune could mean well for his only son and heir. "But once I get my degree and have access to my inheritance, I'll have you for this." There was no point threatening the dead, he knew, but he felt his heart ease slightly. Four years, and he could study whatever he wanted, as long as he got a degree out of it.

He had already decided on Music, majoring in Composition, with a minor in History. New York City had a great many universities and colleges to choose from, but Erik had decided on the exclusive Cathedral College, which recruited its students based on talent instead of money. Only fifteen students were admitted each year. He appreciated the exclusivity, and with such a small student body, he knew that at least the mask wouldn't be much of an issue.

His body sagged, as though the weight of the world was upon him. As if he had called out the man's name, Nadir Khan stood at Erik's side, his dark face somber. Nadir had been Erik's companion and bodyguard ever since he was a child, and had been at the boy's side when his parents were killed in that fatal car crash twelve years ago. He single-handedly raised Erik while his parents moved from party to party, board meetings to cruise ships to round-the-world trips. He accompanied Erik to trips to the doctor in several attempts to rectify his defects; he was the one who treated the wounds and bandaged the boy's scars. He was the one who interceded on Erik's behalf when his parents wanted to send him to yet another plastic surgeon, insisting that the boy had enough and that he should be left alone.

Nadir was the one who got Erik his first mask.

Now, the older man touched Erik gently on the shoulder. "We should be getting back," he said. Erik nodded mutely and allowed Nadir to steer him around the maze of gravestones, back to the idling black car waiting for them at the road. Erik allowed his gaze to roam, content to let Nadir lead. All of the other gravestones looked the same, he thought. Except for that one - the one beneath the beech tree, where a small bouquet of wildflowers rested on top of a tomb.

_Hmm_, he thought to himself. _That wasn't there earlier._

* * *

Christine stared at the simple white headstone and placed her small bouquet of wildflowers on top of the gravestone. "I got in, Papa," she said, her Swedish accent still lightly noticeable despite spending most of her life in the United States. "I got into Cathedral College. You and Mama will be so proud of me."

Gently, she brushed away the fallen leaves and debris that had covered her father's grave. They had left her mother in Sweden, her tomb in the family plot. But her father had wanted to be buried here, and she had acquiesced. _Charles Daae, Beloved husband, father, and friend_. He was an accomplished violinist with the New York Philharmonic, and Christine had fond memories of being a child backstage, running up and down the long, shadowy corridors of myriad concert halls, her polished Mary Janes skidding across polished tiles, playing with costumes and props. She was a child of the theatre, as her father fondly said, ruffling her curls.

What she would give to feel his callused hands on her head again, reassuring her that it would still be all right.

"Aunt Giry is letting me stay with her and Meg during the semester, which is kind of her. She still speaks fondly of you, and Meg is like a sister to me. You'd like her." Christine smiled. "Aunt Giry has already retired from the corps, and has opened up her own studio. I'll be working for her during weekends, which is nice. Meg will be one of the instructors. She's already apprenticed with the New York Ballet, which is pretty awesome." She knelt in front of the gravestone, her fingers lightly tracing the engraved numbers of her father's death.

August 24, 1996

"I still miss you very much, Papa. And I'm still waiting for your Angel of Music, you know." She laughed softly to herself and pushed away a stray curl from her face. "I know that it's strange, and I know that it's just a story, but I can't help but believe that you'd still send him to me." Christine bit the inside of her cheek, trying to stop tears from flooding her eyes.

But she couldn't help it.

The wind picked up. The leaves of the beech tree rustled as a swirl of red and gold autumn leaves drifted downwards. The afternoon glowed golden, the sun painting the horizon with streaks of purple and pink and scarlet. But Christine barely noticed. Tears streamed down her face, and puddled on the ground in front of her.

* * *

_The title of the story is taken from a Mumford & Sons' song, "White Blank Page", that Ramin usually covers during his live performances._

_Reviews and constructive comments are more than welcome. Tell me what you think!_


	2. Enter The Cathedral

_I do actually have a few chapters already, so I'll be uploading as we go. Onwards and upwards!_

* * *

Cathedral College was a small campus in the middle of bustling New York City. The tall, imposing iron gates that surrounded the campus green discouraged pedestrians from even staring at the grand structure that was nestled beneath the shadows of the tall office buildings that bordered the college on all three sides. The entrance faced the general direction of Central Park, about a twenty minutes' stroll away. The walls of Cathedral were slate-gray, with tall windows cut into the facade, the glass reflecting the light of the rising sun. Vines climbed across the walls, trimmed and kept by the college gardeners. Trees bordered the front lawn, and benches were placed beneath their shade. The college would not look out of place at the turn of the century; it was built just before 1902.

Within the campus grounds, a long cemented walkway cut across the campus green, leading up to rising stone steps that led to the entrance of the main building. Two smaller buildings flanked the main hall. Within the main building were the campus offices, the library, and the college auditorium and theatre. The smaller buildings housed the classrooms and practice halls for the students. Old framed posters from student performances and successful alumni productions on Broadway and West End graced the walls of the school, as well as paintings and reproductions of theatrical art. Cathedral College had wealthy patrons, which allowed the school to take on scholars as well as students paying the full tuition. Gargoyles stood guard atop the college roofs, overseeing their domain.

In between semesters, Cathedral lay quiet, surrounding itself with silence like a soft blanket. On the first day of school, with the double gates flung open for the students and teachers alike, it shed its silence and transformed itself into a sanctuary of music. Violins and cellos clashed with each other, piano keys trembled in tune, and the rapid-fire sound of the drums permeated the campus. Students broke into song on the campus green, practicing bars and trills, warming up their voices. Pencils flew across lined paper as composition students feverishly attempted to capture the echo of genius in their mind. Books were swapped and shared, CDs were traded, guitars plucked out pop tunes that carried across the green.

Erik walked down the green, his head down and the hood of his jacket pulled over his hair. A pair of headphones encircled his head and clamped over his ears. It was a particularly sunny September day. He knew that he was already late for his first class, but he couldn't really find it inside him to care. Still, never let it be said that he didn't put in his best in anything that he'd done. He quickened his pace, letting Stravinsky's strings dictate his speed. He clambered up the steps and entered the cool comfort of the main atrium. And because he was looking at his feet instead of where he was going, Erik found himself colliding with a whirlwind of curls and cloth.

"Argh!" groaned the girl, who had fallen on her backside, surrounded by loose sheets of paper. She pushed away mahogany-colored curls from her face and glared at him with narrowed eyes. "Jesus, watch where you're going!"

Erik scrambled to his feet and offered a hand to the girl. "My apologies," he said. "It was completely my fault."

"I'll say," she huffed. Her slender hand in his was strong and sure. He pulled her up and she staggered, tumbling into his arms. For a second, their bodies were pressed against each other, fitting into each other like two pieces of a puzzle. He raised an eyebrow as he looked down at her, his hoodie now off his head and his night-black hair askew. She blushed and lowered her eyes as she straightened herself, putting some space between their bodies. "I'm sorry," she said.

"I should be the one apologizing," he said, twisting around as he bent down and began to gather his bag and books. She joined him on the floor, picking up sheet music and pens. The traffic of people flowed smoothly around them as students hurried to and from classes, barely sparing the two a glance. "I was not paying attention."

The girl blushed again. "You've got a gorgeous voice," she said, biting her bottom lip.

Erik's eyebrow rose again. He wondered if he should permanently tack it to his hairline; this girl was constantly surprising him. "Pardon?"

"And you wear a mask." The girl paused, her head cocked to one side. "You're wearing a mask."

Erik raised a self-conscious hand towards the hidden part of his face, fingers absently tracing the contour of the mask's cheek. "What of it?" he asked, defensiveness creeping into his voice.

"It's interesting, that's all." The girl managed to stuff all her papers back into large ring binder and stuff all her pens in her purse. "I'm Christine," she said.

"Erik," he said, still wary. He stared at her offered hand as though she was giving him a snake.

"I'm not going to bite," she laughed as he finally touched her fingers gingerly. She grasped his hand once more and shook it. "Nice to meet you."

Erik fought back the panic that rose up in his chest. The atrium was now empty, and he could hear the echoes of music coming from both sides of the hall. He wanted to run away from this diminutive girl with the brilliant smile, he wanted to run into the shadows, he wanted to hide. "Um," he said. "Likewise, I guess."

"Fair enough," she said. "It's not always pleasant to literally run into people on the first day of school. Are you a freshman too?"

"Yes."

"I'm in Voice, with a minor in Literature. What are you taking up here?"

"Composition and History." He gestured behind him, to the empty hall. "I'm actually late for class."

"Oh! I'm sorry." Christine gave him another brilliant smile and stepped into the light of the main entrance. Sunlight spilled across the mosaic that decorated the floor of the main atrium, streaking her hair with gold and turning her eyes into summer blue. "I'll see you around then, Erik."

"Okay," he said dumbly. She's beautiful, he thought. Like an angel.

He remained standing in the hallway, still as a statue, as she walked away.

* * *

Erik slid into the last empty seat near the doorway just as his Introduction to Music Composition class and slumped into his seat, pulling his hoodie back over his face and trying to hide his mask. He felt exposed, his heart thumping in his chest, hoping that he wasn't noticed by the professor.

Unfortunately, he was spotted by the bespectacled teacher, who moved towards his side of the classroom. "And you must be the infamous Mr. Destler," he said in an unimpressed voice. "It's very good of you to grace us with your presence."

Must he start his first day apologizing to _everyone_? Erik was starting to think that his place at Cathedral was nothing but a long line of problems. "Look, I apologize for being tardy, but - "

"Save it for the people who work for you, Mr. Destler. Here at Cathedral, we are all equals." The professor wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something distasteful. "And I must remind you that it is impolite to wear headgear in class, including that infernal mask of yours."

"I'm not taking my mask off," he said, pushing off his hoodie and glaring at everyone. A hush fell over the room as his classmates turned to look at him.

"I see no excuse for you to wear that in class," insisted the professor.

Erik simply stared at him. Where did this man come from? Wasn't he informed of Erik's condition? "I believe I informed the college that the mask is integral and that I will not be removing it."

The professor stepped forward, standing in front of Erik's desk and bending down so that they were nose to nose. This close, Erik could see the fine wrinkles on the older man's face, the clouded look in his gray-blue eyes, smell the faint scent of licorice and cigarette smoke on his breath. "Mr. Destler. Take. It. Off."

Thoughts raced through Erik's mind. How much of his mask could he take off in order to frighten the professor? He'd long learned to wield fear like a fine weapon, and he knew that a carefully calculated glimpse of his face was more than enough to frighten even the most stalwart plastic surgeon and head nurse. But before he could raise his hand to allow the professor a peek, he heard someone on his left say, in a clipped, urbane voice, "I always thought that bullying in class was my job, not the teacher's."

Heads swiveled to look at the speaker.

The boy was perhaps only slightly younger than Erik, with dark hair that was swept back and tied at his nape. His was the kind of face that people only saw in magazines, next to bottles of perfume or expensive watches. He exuded a kind of old-fashioned majesty, as though he knew instinctively that people would always give him what he wanted. He looked at the professor quietly, waiting for a response.

"Mr. de Chagny, I'm sure you know - "

"I believe my classmate stated that he didn't want to remove his mask, and that should be respected, Dr. Firmin. Nobody wears something like that simply for fashion. I'm sure that my brother Philippe would want to know all about this little incident, especially since he sits at the Board of Directors of this school."

Dr. Firmin visibly paled.

"Now, I believe you were telling us all about the rudiments of music composition as well our final project?"

The professor slunk back to the front of the class and took up his lecture once more as the class sank back into its customary stupor. Erik crossed his arms over his chest and drew his hoodie back over his head in defiance. Dr. Firmin ignored him. From the corner of his eye, he saw de Chagny give him a discreet thumbs up. Erik ignored him.

* * *

The bell finally rang for lunch. Erik was one of the last students to stand up and leave the classroom, carefully closing his notebook and tucking it back into his messenger bag. He was barely paying attention to the windbag Firmin. Instead, he found his pencil quickly sketching the outline of Christine, the curls of her hair caught in the sunlight, her smile still dancing in his memory.

"Hey." De Chagny was waiting for him outside the door. They fell into step, Erik noting that he stood at least half a head taller than the other boy. "My name's Raoul."

"Erik," he offered carefully. He hated introducing himself, and this was the second time he had to do it today. And all of it on an empty stomach!

"Destler, right? Any relation to Marcus Destler of Destler Corporation?"

"My father." Erik shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to walk faster; Raoul easily managed to catch up. "My late father."

"Sorry to hear that." They both walked in silence down the hallway towards one of the outer buildings, where the cafeteria was tucked in the basement. "I'm taking up Guitar here. Let me guess - you're doing Composition and History?"

Erik raised an eyebrow. "How did you know?"

"Saw your European History book in your bag, figured we were in the same class. And all music majors have to take up composition. What's your weapon of choice?"

"What the heck are you talking about, de Chagny?"

"Instrument. Musical instrument. Catch up, Destler." There was something about Raoul's easy way of conversing and his underhanded sarcasm that amused Erik.

"Piano. But I can play any instrument, really."

"Oh really now?" They had crossed the vestibule of the main building and turned the corner to climb the short flight of steps. Raoul gave him a grin as he pushed the door to the western wing open. The windows here afforded a panoramic view of the front lawn, where students gathered in clumps, playing music or reading or eating lunch. Erik found himself scanning the lawn for a sign of Christine. "How about the mandolin?" asked Raoul.

"Yep."

"Dulcimer."

"Yes."

"Bassoon? Flute?"

Erik couldn't help but grin back. "Yes, yes, and also the piccolo."

"Guitar? Banjo?"

"Yes, and yes."

"Drums? Music box? Oh, I know, cymbals!"

"All you need is a really big stick and anger management issues."

Raoul laughed. "You're a funny one, Destler. I hope we can be friends."

Erik paused in surprise. "You want to be friends? Why?"

"Because despite the fact that you look like death warmed over, and your people skills leave much to be desired, and you hide half your face behind a damn mask, you seem a lot smarter than most of the other people who came into Cathedral." Raoul shrugged. "Plus my brother spoke highly of your parents, and I was hoping that we could continue that relationship."

His brother is on the Board of the college, like my parents were back in the day, thought Erik. "De Chagny, right? You've got your fingers in everything, from Google to clean energy to Gatorade."

"We try to diversify," said Raoul, almost apologetically. "But that's really my brother, not me. I don't have anything to do with the company."

Erik nods. "Very well."

They reached the stairwell and clattered down the stairs, their feet scraping against bare cement, as they descended to the basement and pushed through the steel double doors that led to the cafeteria. The lunch crowd had thinned, and Raoul and Erik joined the end of the queue. "Mystery meat, how interesting," muttered Erik as he grabbed an empty tray and tried to figure out what among the cafeteria offerings would not kill him.

Raoul leaned over his shoulder. "Philippe says the beef was the safest bet."

"I hope it comes from a real cow, at least," said Erik as he pointed to the beef stew and received a generous helping as well as some mashed potatoes. Raoul asked for the same thing, and both proceeded to the check-out counter. Erik snagged a banana along the way, and both paid for their meals. Making their way to one of the empty tables, they sat down just as a curly-haired girl carrying far too many books burst through the doors. She looked around for a familiar face, and a smile lit her features as she saw Erik.

"You know her?" asked Raoul as Christine swiftly navigated the maze of chairs and tables and students and made her way to their table.

"Christine, Raoul. Raoul, Christine," said Erik. Christine flashed Raoul a quick smile as she sat beside Erik and dumped her bag and books on the last empty chair.

"Nice to meet you," said Christine.

"Enchanted, I'm sure," replied Raoul.

Christine laughed. "Oh you're a charmer now, aren't you?"

Erik grinned at the look of confusion on Raoul's face. "He charmed the pants right off Dr. Firmin earlier."

Christine pulled out a plastic Tupperware box filled with sliced fruit and popped a piece of apple in her mouth as she gestured for Erik to continue. Erik sketched out the events in Composition class, with Raoul providing commentary and speculation as to the nature of Dr. Firmin's temper, becoming more and more elaborate and hilarious as they story progressed. Before the lunch period was over, all three knew that they would be friends.

* * *

_No Raoul-bashing, I'm afraid. I love Erik, yes, but I don't think Raoul's such a bad guy either. So what do you think of our trio so far? Reviews are welcome! :)_


	3. Friends and Family

_Now it gets a bit interesting as we introduce our secondary characters. Don't worry, you'll get your fluff and angst in equal measure as the chapters progress. At any rate, I'm in the middle of working on the next chapters, so please please please tell me what you think so far. I have absolutely no clue if I'm doing this right._

* * *

Nadir Khan was both a gentleman and an expert assassin. One had to be both, after all, if you're in the business of protecting the wealthy. But Erik Destler occupied a special place in Nadir's heart. The Iranian-American had never married, and his dalliances with women were few and far between, and so he treated the heir of the Destler fortune as though the boy was the son he'd never had. This was especially true since this was Erik's first time to actually attend school. His parents instilled in him a fear of crowds, taught him to fear his deformities, and he grew up with a series of private tutors who were all paid with generous salaries in order to ensure their silence. And yet Erik was insistent upon attending Cathedral College, going as far as threatening Nadir when the older man tried to dissuade him. "My father would have wanted it," he said with an air of finality. Nadir conceded.

Now, Nadir sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea long gone cold in front of him. The clock hanging above the refrigerator read 5:25. The newspaper beside him had been folded and re-folded too many times to count. He'd already done the crossword, in pen, and finished the sudoku panels. The servants were instructed to stay away for the afternoon; he could hear them scurrying above like soft-footed mice. Erik was due back any minute now and Nadir was unsure whether or not he would be needed for a listening ear or for his ability to kill silently and without a trace.

He heard the town car drive up to the front of the brownstone, the car door slam, and the front door open. "Nadir?" called out Erik.

"In here."

Erik burst into the kitchen, and for a moment, Nadir's heart stopped. But he forced himself to take a sip of his tea, attempt not to spit it out, and watched as Erik crossed the kitchen, side-stepping the island, and making his way to the industrial-sized fridge. The boy brought out bread and ham and mustard and started assembling a sandwich. "I know what you're thinking, old Khan," he said as he carefully aligned the ham slices on the pieces of bread.

"And what am I thinking, Erik?"

"How was my day at school."

"And indeed, how was your day at school?"

Erik raised his eyes and considered Nadir for a moment. "I had a good day. I made friends."

"Ah." Something in Nadir's heart eased. "This is good to know."

"You were worried, weren't you?" Erik took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.

"Nonsense. You're a perfectly sociable young man."

"I'm the devil's spawn, if my mother is to be believed."

Nadir rolled his eyes. "I've met the devil, and between the two of you, he is still more handsome."

Erik laughed; Nadir was surprised to hear such a sound come from his charge's mouth. "And this is why I keep you around, old Khan."

"I aim to please, Erik. I aim to please."

* * *

Christine twisted the knob open and let herself in. Her key was hanging on a chain around her neck. She was quite thankful that her aunt had finally trusted her enough to give her a key to the house, and she didn't want to abuse that trust. "I'm home!" she called out as she dropped her bag and books in the front hall and wandered towards the kitchen.

Meg was seated at the kitchen table, her laptop open and spreadsheets scattered on the surface of the table. "Hey, Chris," she said absently as Christine dumped her fruit container in the sink and grabbed a glass of orange juice from the fridge. "How was Cathedral?"

"Pretty good. Lots of work." Christine sat beside Meg and considered her childhood friend as Meg continued working. She's definitely prettier than me, Christine decided. Meg had the face of a porcelain doll, fine-boned and pale, her lips naturally red and her bright blond hair hanging like a shining river down her shoulders. She had the grace of movement and flexibility of a ballerina in her prime, thanks to the rigorous training of her mother. Christine considered herself: two left feet, bony elbows, a flat chest, and a riot of curly hair that refused to be tamed. She wrinkled her nose. Might as well prepare for spinsterhood now.

"Made any friends?" Meg had always been concerned for her best friend; Christine wasn't naturally friendly, preferring to keep to herself and her music instead of hanging out at the mall or watching movies. Meg was used to company - she'd been training with the same group of girls since childhood, and most of them were now also apprenticed at the ballet. But Christine was used to moving from country to country, thanks to her father's job, and never really put down roots ever since Uncle Charles' death. She was happy that Christine had come to live with them, but also knew that if she didn't keep on trying to draw Christine out of her shell, the girl would soon become a ghost as well.

"I did, actually."

Meg raised her head from her computer. "Little Miss Leave-Me-Alone made friends on her first day?"

"Well, to be fair, it wasn't my intention. He ran into me." Christine told Meg about running into Erik, and later on being introduced to Raoul. Meg listened, the grin on her face growing wider and wider.

"Two boys, huh?" Meg said, once Christine had finished. "Someone's the little heartbreaker in college."

Christine laughed. "Trust me, I have no interest in dating either of them. Plus, I think Erik was in an accident or something. He wears a mask over half of his face."

"Maybe he's a soldier or something, and he came back from Iraq or something?"

"I don't think so," mused Christine. "He doesn't look the type. Too pale. Too skinny."

"In other words, just your type."

"I don't have a type, Meg Giry. And I'm not planning on dating anyone in Cathedral. I have a scholarship to keep and a career to figure out."

Meg reached over and patted Christine's hand. "Sure, honey, that's what they all say."

* * *

Philippe de Chagny knocked once on his younger brother's door before opening it. Raoul was on his desk, papers and books scattered all over every available inch of space. "Lots of work today?"

Raoul looked up and gave Philippe a tired smile. "College is difficult."

"And it's just the first day." Philippe sat on the edge of Raoul's bed. "Still regretting not taking up my offer of interning at the Paris office?"

Raoul laughed and swiveled around so that he faced his brother. "Tempting, all those opera ballerinas."

"Very limber."

"Flexible, even."

Philippe guffawed. The older de Chagny was a barrel-chested man, his body more suited to that of a woodcutter than a businessman. He dressed sleekly, kept his beard trimmed, but one could sense the raw power beneath the suit and expensive Italian shoes. Even his voice made Raoul tremble, and that was only when he was speaking softly. "How was your first day at Cathedral?"

"Composition professor was being a dick. Made some new friends. Itching to start playing the guitar again." Raoul shrugged. "Oh, I met the Destler boy."

"Charles' kid? I thought he was overseas or something." Philippe had a pensive look on his face. "His dad was a good guy. Helped us a lot. We owe a lot to the Destlers."

"So you said." Raoul smiled. "You don't mind?"

"No, of course not." Philippe stood up and clapped a meaty hand on his brother's shoulders. "Invite your friends over some time, if you'd like. I'll be heading to London to check in on the operations next week. If you want to have a party here, be my guest."

"Encouraging me to be a stereotype, aren't you?" Raoul grinned.

"Well, you only live once. Might as well make the most of it."

* * *

_So what do you think? Any suggestions on the party? Don't worry, the masquerade will happen later on. I've got this all figured out - I think. :)_

_Also, I have Ramin in my head as Erik and Hadley as Raoul, and a rather fluffy-haired Sierra as Christine. Who do you have in your head?_


	4. Rain Will Make The Flowers Grow

_And we're back with another slice of life from our trio. Don't worry, I just need all the puzzle pieces in place before the action starts rolling. And also, Raoul and Erik and Christine are chatty. Goodness, they'd talk the whole time if I let them. Anyway, again, please recommend and read and review!_

* * *

"So how do you feel about a freshman party?" asked Raoul during lunch.

He, Christine, and Erik had continued their habit of having lunch together after Raoul and Erik's morning Composition class (Christine had Voice 1 under La Carlotta; it turned out that she and Christine had the same relationship as Erik and Dr. Firmin.) and before their European History class. Afterwards, the three of them would usually disperse: Christine to her theatre class, Raoul to his guitar, and Erik to piano. Usually, they finished around four in the afternoon. Raoul and Erik had taken to walking home with Christine, and detoured in order to accompany her to her apartment before heading their separate ways. Christine was always vastly entertained that the boys had their town cars following them at a discreet distance. "Delicate flowers, the two of you," she teased them repeatedly.

Today, Erik was staring at what looked like fish but he was quite sure was a lab experiment from the Natural Science Museum. He poked it with a plastic fork. "Sorry, de Chagny, what were you saying?"

Raoul rolled his eyes. "I thought your mask didn't affect your hearing, Destler."

"It doesn't."

Christine popped a sweet purple grape in her mouth. "Raoul is asking if we want to party. Your place, I presume?"

Raoul nodded. "Philippe wants me to socialize."

"Party like a rich boy, you mean?"

"I don't party," said Erik in a hurt voice.

"Ah, so you admit you're a rich boy then."

"_I'm just a poor boy / from a poor family_," sang Raoul.

"Shut up." Erik rolled his eyes. "What kind of party? I don't want to dress up."

"Well, even if we invite everyone in school, there's only what? Sixty people?" said Raoul.

"They might bring dates or something," said Christine.

"Are you bringing a date?" asked Erik.

Christine flicked a grape seed in his direction. "I won't, but Meg might."

"Ah, the elusive Marguerite Giry. If we didn't know any better, I swear you two might be lesbian lovers," teased Raoul.

"Only in your dreams."

Raoul pretended to be affronted. "However did you find out?"

Christine pouted. "Erik, make him stop."

Erik stared at Raoul. "Stop."

"Okay."

"Done," said Erik. Both of them maintained a straight face as they looked over at Christine.

Christine started flicking grape seeds at the two of them.

* * *

Christine was passing through the conservatory after her theatre class, cursing at the pile of costumes and cloth that overflowed from her arms. As she trotted down the empty hallways, the afternoon sunlight slanting across the pale walls, she distinctly heard the sound of piano music being played, accompanied by a deep baritone voice. There was something ethereal about that voice, as though she was listening to an otherworldly creature. She paused and turned, trying to follow the sound of the voice. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled as she picked out the lyrics of the song that was being sung by the angelic voice.

_...the summers die one by one, how soon they fly, on and on_  
_And I am old, and will be gone._  
_Bring him peace, bring him joy_  
_He is young, he is only a boy..._

She nudged open the nearest door and stepped inside the darkened performance space. The small room could comfortably seat around fifty people in a semi-circle around a baby grand piano. The black surface of the piano cover reflected the warm orange lights arranged dramatically around the performance space. On the piano, fingers caressing the keys as though they were made of rich velvet, was Erik.

His eyes were closed, and she could see the shimmering track of tears coursing down the exposed side of his face. He was singing, the words trickling from his lips like ambrosia and honey. Christine could only gape in surprise and pride as she slowly walked closer to the performance space, absently dropping her armful of costumes on the floor. She'd heard the recordings of Les Miserables, sure, and she'd even seen the performances on Broadway, but somehow, Erik imbued the song with a fragility and tenderness that she rarely heard. She felt tears spring at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision.

He'd ended the song, the note, pure and trembling, hanging in the air like a crystal teardrop suspended on an invisible string. Immediately, his hands started playing another song from the same musical. She knew this song, and started whispering the lyrics as the music wove around her like a spell.

_...and you will keep me safe_  
_And you will keep me close_  
_And rain will make the flowers grow._

Erik opened his eyes, and met her gaze over the piano. A smile graced the side of his lips, and he answered the song in counterpoint, singing Marius' part perfectly. Christine finally reached the space in front of him and sat down beside Erik. His fingers flew across the keys, teasing out the music from it, allowing her to sink into a trance.

_Just hold me now, and let it be_  
_Shelter me, comfort me_

There was no longer anything between Christine and the music. Erik sang beside her, their voices weaving effortlessly across the void of words and melody that surrounded them, enveloped them in a magic all its own. She sank into that blissful space that she went to whenever she sang, where she could no longer distinguish between the song and herself. She could feel every cell in her body vibrating as she and Erik sang in counterpoint, as she felt the hitch in her voice when she reached the point where her heart broke.

_And you will keep me safe_  
_And you will keep me close_  
_And rain, and rain, will make the flowers…_

She allowed the silence to hold her tongue as Erik whispered the last word on his own, and she felt her heart break at the beauty of that last sound. She allowed him to finish the song on the piano, and never realized that she'd been crying until she lifted a hand up to her cheek and came away to find it damp. Finally, his fingers paused above the keys. The air was still, holding on to the echo of the music that had recently filled its hall. She felt him look at her, and she raised her head to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry for making you cry," he said quietly. His eyes were the color of oak leaves in autumn, capturing the warm glow of the spotlight.

"Where did you learn to play like that? To sing like that?"

He pressed his lips together into a thin line. "Music… was the only reason I had to live for a very long time."

She nodded. "I feel the same way."

Christine reached out and laid a hand across Erik's clenched fists. "It's beautiful, Erik. Your music is beautiful."

"It comes from the mind of a monster, Christine." His voice was devoid of emotion, as though he was repeating the words of the long-dead.

"Something that beautiful can't have come from a monster."

"Beautiful? I've just made you cry."

"They're happy tears, Erik." She gave him a watery smile, making sure to keep her hands over his. Slowly, carefully, she felt his hands unclench, his fingers spreading outwards like the petals of a flower, fitting between her own fingers as they held each other. His hands were callused and warm, the grip strong and sure. "Look, I don't know what makes you think you have to continue punishing yourself, but I can tell you that it's wrong. You're not a bad person."

Erik took a deep breath; she felt him grip her hand like a lifeline, an anchor. "You're the first person to say that."

"Surely your parents loved you."

Erik turned chalk-white and released her hand. Before she could even say anything, he slipped off the piano bench and stalked away from the stage, his long legs quickly taking him away from her.

* * *

"And he just walked away?" asked Raoul in concern, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he rummaged around the fridge for a midnight snack.

"Yeah," said Christine on the other end of the line. "I'm worried, Raoul. Something I said must've hurt him deeply."

"Well, Erik's rather sensitive about his past, right? I mean, we can't even get him to tell us why he wears a mask." One of their favorite activities was asking Erik why he wore his mask - and usually the stories became more and more outlandish. One of Christine's favorite theories was that Erik's mask hid a secret Siamese twin attached to his chin; Raoul favored the story that Erik's mask was actually a secret satellite that allowed him to get over a thousand channels. Erik would just give them a tight smile and attempt to steer the conversation away from his mask.

"True. But I didn't ask any questions. I just mentioned his parents."

"He hates talking about his parents." Raoul had tried to draw Erik into a variety of conversations about their respective family businesses, and what he'd learned from his older brother. Erik was remarkably reticent about the topic, other than mentioning that his inheritance was still tied up in a trust and that he received an allowance from the Board of Directors of Destler Corp. until he graduated from college.

"I don't like talking about my parents, either."

"None of us do." Raoul chuckled as he found a pot of mayonnaise, a half-rind of peccorino reggiano, and some cold bacon from breakfast that morning. "Look at the three of us - we should start an organization for orphans in Cathedral."

"I don't think any of us predicted this, Raoul."

"Look, he's a big boy, Chris. I'm sure that it was just an Erik thing, you know, a sensitive artist kind of thing. Let him be for now. Maybe he just needs to work it out on his own." Raoul found a couple of slices of bread in the bread bin and started assembling his sandwich as he spoke to Christine. "And anyway, have you thought about my suggestions?"

"For what?"

"The party this weekend. Come on, Chris, keep up." Raoul finally assembled his sandwich - a work of art, if he said so himself - and took a big bite. "We can have a band or a DJ, and d'you know anyone who brings in a couple of crates of champagne?"

"Raoul, I don't think college parties have champagne. I think we're supposed to be more of the cheap beer kind of crowd."

"Well, I want champagne. And wine."

"And we can all wear our Sunday best and dance the waltz in your ballroom."

Raoul laughed. "Sorry, the ballroom's being renovated."

"Rich kids," snorted Christine in mock digust.

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it." Raoul waggled his finger at the phone, as if Christine could actually see him. "And you never know, you might actually find yourself splashed in front of society pages somewhere in the near future, Miss I-Want-To-Sing-In-The-Opera-Someday."

"The opera won't make me rich, Raoul."

"That's what you think. Philippe manages one of the smaller opera houses at the West End. Populaire. I'm sure you've heard of it."

Christine paused on the other end of the line. "They did Puccini last season, right? La Vie Boheme?"

"Bingo. We raked in quite a bit from that production. Ran for seventeen months straight. Broke even after the second month."

"Fair enough." He could hear Christine actually chewing the ends of her curly hair. "Anyway, what are we going to do about Erik?"

"Nothing, _ma chere_. Trust me, we're guys. We don't like talking about our feelings. I'm sure Erik just needs some time to work whatever it is out of his system."

"I hate it when you use your French against me."

"You might beat us in tennis, Chris, but not when it comes to _le langue j'adore_."

"God, stop butchering your native tongue."

Raoul grinned and finished his sandwich. Gathering up the empty plate and cutlery in one hand, he moved towards the sink to dump the remains of his midnight snack. "And on that note, _ma chere_, I will have to go to sleep so that I can make it to another wonderful session with the delightful Dr. Firmin."

"Ugh, don't remind me. La Carlotta is liable to screech my ear off tomorrow morning as well." He could hear rustling on Christine's side of the line, and wondered if she was settling in for the night. "Anyway, thanks Raoul. That made me feel better."

"Anytime, Chris. Anytime at all."

* * *

_Raoul sings a phrase from "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. Erik sings "Bring Him Home" and "A Little Fall of Rain" from the musical Les Miserables. Anyone saw Ramin as Enjolras and Hadley as Grantaine? Ah, the bromance is awesome. :)_

_As usual, comments and constructive critiques are most welcome._


	5. Tearing and Mending

_Thank you for everyone who's read and commented and reviewed and favorited this story. I appreciate each and every kind word, and am looking forward to reading more from you. Apologies for the delay between updates - work has been quite crazy. _

_Anyway, here we go. Let's teach Erik how to get along with people, now shall we? :)_

* * *

The moon shone behind the drapes that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows that covered one wall of Erik's room. Pale shadows drew parallel lines across the carpeted floor, casting everything into sharp relief. He felt as though he was living underwater - everything was translucent, as if he was viewing the room through a film of water. There's the mantlepiece and the fireplace, the mismatched armchairs that he thought looked masculine (but Nadir simply ignored), the wall of books that lined the opposite end of the room, his desk and computer and personal recording equipment, his electronic keyboard and guitar…

Erik shoved the sheets down to the foot of the bed and tossed and turned across the king-sized mattress. The lush Egyptian cotton bedclothes normally felt comfortable, but tonight they felt like burlap scratching on his skin. He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside. The bright green LED light told him it was 2:43 in the morning. He thumped his pillows angrily and turned to stare at the ceiling.

His mind kept on going back to that afternoon with Christine. Her voice was beautiful - he'd heard beautiful voices before, he was schooled in the finer points of operatic singing, and he knew he could use his voice to manipulate people if he wished - but hers transcended his. Hers was the perfect summer morning, the dewdrops gracing the petals of wildflowers, the majestic lights that lit up the Paris skyline. He wanted to distill her voice and bottle it up, a veritable essence of Christine.

He sat up, plunging thin, elegant fingers through his shock of dark hair, short nails gripping his scalp. It had been two days; he'd been avoiding Christine and Raoul, not wanting to show either of them that moment of weakness when he craved another person's touch. His parents never touched him: his mother's eyes skated over his face and fixed determindly on the wall behind him whenever she saw him, while his father locked himself up in his study and ignored the boy completely. Yes, he was clothed and fed and taught by the best tailors and chefs and tutors, but he was entirely bereft of his parents. He could barely remember his father's face. His mother never smiled.

Erik was taught to avoid being touched - only Nadir was ever allowed to be near him. Most of the servants feared his face, and his temper. Once, a well-meaning maid attempted to polish his mask, and he frightened her so much that she resigned within the hour and ran out of the brownstone without even taking her meager belongings. Eleven-year-old Erik was filled with a perverse sort of power. So he could actually put his deformity to good use.

But he didn't want to do that to Raoul and Christine. For the first time in eighteen years, he had people who never shied away from his mask, from his voice, from his mere presence. And even the students at Cathedral had barely spared a second glance at the smooth white half of his face after the first interminable week of classes; apparently, wearing a mask was much like coloring your hair neon pink or shaving your sideburns into the shape of stars. Distracting for awhile, and then you blend into the ordinary fabric of everyday life.

Erik had never been ordinary his entire life.

He finally decided that sleep was going to elude him for the rest of the night. Slipping off his bed, he padded towards his keyboard and flicked on the switch. He waited for the machine to warm up before playing a few bars. He was feeling… odd tonight. Not angry, no. Not sadness, either. Melancholy, perhaps.

He allowed his fingers to move across the keys, traversing the uncharted territories of new music. He followed the invisible tune in his head, picking and choosing and stringing notes together in order to form a new melody. His computer started whirring, recording the music. Finally letting himself to sink into the music, Erik closed his eyes and drowned himself into the music of the night.

* * *

"Here." He handed Raoul the smooth leather handle of a guitar case. Raoul looked up to see Erik, his customary half-mask obscuring his features, looking hesitant and nervous as he watched Raoul take the handle. "Have this."

"What's this?" Raoul placed the heavy case on the picnic table beneath one of the great oak trees that surrounded the perimeter of the Cathedral lawn. Beside him, Christine pushed aside her Introduction to Literature book and stood up as well to look at what Erik had brought.

"It's… I thought you might like it." Opposite them, Erik looked frightened. "Anyway, I shall be in the library if you need me." Without another word, he stalked off, his black peacoat swirling in the autumn breeze.

Christine peered over Raoul's shoulder as he undid the clasp of the guitar case. She gasped as the fine wood finish, the delicate inlays, and the beautiful neck of the guitar was revealed to them. Raoul paled. "This is a 10th Anniversary Custom 22. There was only a few hundred of these made."

"How much is it?"

"More than your car, definitely."

"I don't own a car."

"That's my point." Raoul gingerly lifted the guitar from its case, his hands carefully cradling the neck and body of the guitar. "It's easily worth more than twenty grand." He whistled as he slung the guitar around his shoulders and started strumming. "How many times can I say? You are my everything. / How many times can I say? Please don't change." Raoul's voice was like sunset on a chilly winter day, the smooth fall of Christmas snow, the draw of whiskey down one's throat. Christine smiled. She had always known that Raoul had earned his place at Cathedral.

She listened as he finished the song, fingers strumming the taut strings, palms rhythmically slapping lightly against the guitar. He stared at the instrument in his hands, removed it from his shoulders, and returned it to the case. "I need to return this."

"What?" Christine was flabbergasted. "Why?"

"Because Erik has no business not talking to us for a frickin' week and then suddenly dropping one of the world's most expensive guitars on my lap!" Raoul felt a flush creep up his neck. "He has to learn! He can't do this."

"Raoul." Christine stood in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. "Raoul, listen to me. Do you honestly think Erik means you any harm?"

Raoul glared at her silently, daring her to answer her own question.

"Look, I'll go talk to him, okay? Let me straighten things up." Christine gathered up her things and swung her bag over her shoulder. "Stay here. I'll bring Erik down when we're done."

* * *

She knew instinctively where he was. The library might be small, but once you went down to the lower levels, it seemed to open up like a maze of shelves and the musty smell of old books. She went down the winding wooden staircase to the third level beneath the library entrance. All the historical texts and opera scores were archived below in specially-designed capsules that protected the paper from disintegrating. Only certain students were given the privilege to even see the collection Cathedral had to offer, and Christine knew that Erik was one of them.

She found him at a corner cubicle, his figure almost hidden in the shadows. Flickering halogen sconces illuminated the walls. The whoosh of air-conditioning muffled her footsteps as she moved towards him, hunched over a large book written in a cramped hand, gloved fingers gingerly touching the words on the page. "Erik," she said softly.

He turned, and even in the half-light, she could see a blush staining his cheek. "Christine."

"Erik. Do you have a minute?"

He carefully closed the book and turned around. The air around them was heavy with words that had been held back, unsaid, for days. "I always have time for you."

"Really? Because I had a feeling that you were avoiding me. And Raoul."

Erik spread his white-gloved hands in the air, fingers stretched outwards as though he was yearning for a piano. "I… I apologize for my actions."

Christine glared at him. "I thought we were friends, Erik. Real, proper friends that hang out during lunch and tease each other and sing and tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets."

Erik's lips were pressed into a thin line. "We are," he said after a long silence. "But I am afraid that I do not know how to be friends with people. I've been kept away from society for a very long time."

"And you're doing so well ever since you started school." Christine stepped forward and gently grasped his hands in hers, fingers carefully laced together. "Look, here's the thing with friends, Erik. You don't have to bribe us or pay us to forgive you if you did something wrong. All you need to do is talk to us, okay? We're your friends. That means that even if you didn't have a lot of money and a private jet, we still want to hang out with you."

Erik lowered his head, staring at their entwined hands. "I understa - wait, how did you know about the private jet?"

Christine chuckled. "The Internet is not just for porn."

"I see," Erik said, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He wanted this moment to stretch on forever. He wanted to stay here with her forever.

But Christine tugged at his hands and he was helpless in her grip. She allowed him to gather his things and to return the book to its shelf. And when he came back, wrapping his scarf around his neck and taking her hand in his once more, she allowed him. "Hey," she asked lightly, trying for a joking tone, unsure if he would even answer her question, "how come you got something for Raoul but not for me?"

"Ah." Erik reached into his pocket with his free hand as they climbed up the stairs, back into the main hall of the library. He pulled out a CD with her name scribbled on the shiny silver surface. "This is for you."

"What is it?"

His eyes glimmered like starlight as he looked at her. "Listen to it tonight."

* * *

_Now the ball's finally moving! :) I don't want Erik to sound like a complete stalker, but definitely rather obsessed with Christine. Also, Raoul sings the opening lines from Hadley Fraser's song, "How Many Times"._

_The guitar Erik gives Raoul is a PRS Private Stock 1333 10th Anniversary Custom 22. You can check out those super expensive guitars over here: fretpoint dot com / 2009 / 03 / 26 / the-worlds-most-expensive-guitars / Just remove the spaces between and replace the word "dot" with an actual dot._

_Once again, reviews feed the muse, so please be generous! _


	6. The Best Laid Plans

_I apologize for the delay in putting up this chapter. Work has eaten up most of my free time, and I've spent the past day just catching up on sleep. At any rate, here's the next chapter, and I'm already working on the one after this one. Do tell me what you think._

* * *

Raoul sat beside Erik, towards the back of the tiered auditorium, and pushed a folded piece of paper into his pale hands. "What's this?" asked Erik, looking up from his sketch.

Raoul stared at him in bewilderment. "It's the invitation for the party on Saturday."

Erik looked at the page blankly. "I don't do parties."

"You will for this one."

"Raoul!" He turned to his friend. It had only been a few days since he'd begun joining Raoul and Christine for meals again; he was surprised at how easily the duo had become a trio again, and he was silently relieved that they were more than willing to welcome him back into the fold. Still, while he was comfortable (as much as he was able to relax) around them, he was not looking forward to a night of drunken debauchery at the de Chagny penthouse. "Have you seen this face?" Erik gestured towards his half-mask angrily. "They'll laugh me out of your home."

"You're my friend. They're not going to do that."

"I am not good with a lot of people. You know that."

"Then we'll introduce you to people gradually. I'm sure with a glass or two of wine, they'll ignore the mask completely." Raoul straightened in his seat as Mr. Moncharmin entered the classroom, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses and sifting through his voluminous sheaf of notes.

"Nobody ignores the mask, Raoul," muttered Erik, sinking into his seat as the class began.

"We do," said Raoul, just as quietly. "Christine and I. We do. You're the one who can't ignore it."

Erik was interrupted from having the last word by the sound of Mr. Moncharmin clearing his throat and asking them to turn their history books to page 184.

* * *

Christine nibbled at the end of the pen, staring at the scribbled words in front of her. She pulled out the earphones from her ears and stared at her iPod balefully. The music was simply not cooperating with her, and she was at a loss for words. She flipped her notebook shut and started shuffling through her music, her thumb swiping across the screen as she scrolled through her songs.

"What's up?" Raoul's voice broke through her concentration. She looked up as he and Erik slid into the seats opposite hers, plunking their plastic trays on the table and examining the contents. Erik gave her a slight smile, the edges of his lips disappearing beneath the mask. She returned the smile, and for the thousandth time, wished that she had the courage to take off his mask. What was underneath that pristine white porcelain that molded against his face? What was he hiding?

"Nothing much," she muttered, sweeping aside her papers and pens and shoving them back into her bag. "Trying to finish this project for writing class. Lyrics are difficult."

"I'm sure that repeating the word 'Baby, baby, baby' is no difficulty," said Raoul, shoving a forkful of potatoes in his mouth. "Anything you write might as well win the Pulitzer."

Christine wrinkled her nose. "I'm not kidding. I mean, Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter and his poems rolls right off your tongue. It's easy to make things mean something, but to set the meaning to music? It's hard."

Erik pushed around the cherry tomatoes buried in a bed of wilted greens. "I understand your frustration," he said slowly. "Music feels the same way. The structures are there, but it's the way you feel about the piece that elevates it from craft to art."

"Yes!" exclaimed Christine. "That is precisely my problem. The words are there, but the music refuses to be bound to the melody."

Raoul made a face. "Really heavy talk for lunchtime. Can't we just talk about the weather?"

"You are aware we're in the basement?" said Erik.

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes. I was trying for some levity here."

"Hey," said Christine, cutting through the tension between Raoul and Erik. "Come on. Anyway, Raoul, have you figured out what the schedule is on Saturday?"

It was the perfect trick to distract Raoul, but Christine noted that Erik's mood became subdued. "Well, Philippe will be in London until Tuesday, so I figured that we could get the caterers in by three in the afternoon, and open up the music room and the dining areas by five. I'm sure that most people will be coming over by seven or so."

"I thought it's a party, not a dinner," said Christine, mentally trying to figure out what she was going to wear.

"Well, it's free-flowing liquor and we do have a bar; I'll just have to make sure we're well-stocked and there's a bartender. There's nothing more gauche than tending your own bar during a party." Raoul made a face. "Isn't that right, Erik?"

Erik glared at him. "I don't drink, de Chagny. And you know I'm not going."

"Not going to the party?" asked Christine.

"No."

"Why not?"

"That's what I've been asking as well," said Raoul, leaning back against his chair.

Erik looked at both of them miserably. "I'll ruin it for you. I don't want to do that."

"Oh, Erik." Christine reached across the table and laid her hand across his. He started at the touch, but his hand remained still beneath her palm. "Why would you think that you'd ruin the party for Raoul?"

Erik pursed his lips. Christine's hand was warm and soft, and somehow fit invitingly into his. He turned his hand so that their palms touched. Her fingers molded into the curve of his, and he imagined, fleetingly, that she'd let him do this regularly. "I'm a freak, Christine. People make fun of my mask. They'd probably steer clear of me if they see the mask off, or run screaming to the guidance office because of some monster conjured to life in front of them. You two are the only ones in the entire school who will suffer my presence. I don't want to make it any more difficult for you."

Raoul looked at him as though he'd sprouted a second head. "Are you crazy?"

Erik's lips quirked upwards. "I've been called worse."

Christine tightened her grip on his hand in frustration. "Erik! You can't keep on hiding from people forever. It was already bad enough when you and Raoul had a fight, and I don't want to keep on running after you just because things aren't going your way. You have to learn to be with people, okay?"

Erik stared at her. Christine's face was flushed, her eyes were the color of storm clouds, and her penumbra of dark hair had escaped from the loose bun that she had it in earlier. "Christine, I - "

"I don't care what happened to you in your past, and I don't care what's beneath the mask." Christine's face softened and she loosened her grip on Erik's hand. He silently mourned the loss of pressure, but didn't dare disturb her words. "But you deserve a normal life at Cathedral, Erik. And part of that means actually talking to other people."

Raoul quietly released the breath he'd been holding on the entire time. "Wow," he said slowly. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Christine."

She favored him a quick smile before turning her attention back to Erik. "So. Will you come?"

Erik tentatively returned her smile. "I will… think on it."

* * *

She found him in the library again. _Really_, she thought, _this is getting a bit predictable_. "Erik," she said quietly, not wanting to disturb his reading.

He looked up from the desk he'd appropriated for himself. His laptop was open, the pale glowing screen casting an odd play of shadow and light over pages of open books and scribbled sheets of music. Christine looked around. All the other tables in the library were full - clumps of people in pairs or trios occupied the smaller tables, while groups of fives and sixes were spread out across the larger tables. Erik, who occupied a table that could have comfortably sat a group of four more people, was alone. Christine pursed her lips. People should really get over the damn mask.

"Christine," he said, a note of pleasure in his voice. He stood up as she approached him, and Christine was reminded of an old-fashioned gentleman. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for a spare seat to study," she said. "Raoul's in practice, so we've got about a couple of hours before heading home."

Erik nodded. "All right." He waited for her to slip into place opposite him and place her bag on the empty seat beside her before sitting back down again.

Christine brought out her Introduction to Critical Theory books out of her bag and her notebooks, and glanced over at Erik. He was already hunched over his notes, headphones firmly clamped around his ears. His mask was firmly in place, delineating the half of his face and rendering his features into unmovable porcelain.

Dark and light, yin and yang, morning and night - Erik was two halves of a person, comfortable in the shadows than in the spotlight. Christine tilted her head and looked at her friend closely. He was handsome, at least from what she could see. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, combed neatly into place, the tips curling just beneath his ear. The mask covered the left side of his face, sculpted perfectly to mirror the right side. The eye-hole carved in the middle allowed her to see the tint of his autumn-hued eyes; such a strange color! Like little licks of flame, burning into you if you looked too closely. Erik was too thin, his clothes always hanging off him like a hanger, and he almost always dressed in black, with his customary peacoat thrown over his shoulders. Christine considered him. He was handsome, but not in the way Raoul was handsome. They were like the opposite ends of the spectrum - Raoul looked as though he'd stepped out of the pages of Esquire, while Erik would have been more at home as the resident mystery musician in Rolling Stones. She smiled at the comparison, and wondered how she could have been so lucky to have found two of the most awesome guys in school as her friend.

Erik flicked his eyes in her direction. "Done getting your fill?"

She laughed softly, trying not to disturb the atmosphere of the library. "How did you know?" she asked.

"I always know what's going on around me," he said.

"Eyes at the back of your head then?"

"Makes up for the ugly front." Erik gestured to the side of his face covered with the mask.

"Erik." Christine's voice was filled with reproach. "Stop that."

His eyes hardened. "It's true, Christine. No use pretending."

She decided to let it drop, at least for now. "So what are you doing?" she asked.

"Trying to make sense of the music for my final project."

"That's, like, six months away!"

"I want it to be perfect." He gestured to the music sheets in front of him, filled with pencilled notes and scribbled words beneath the staff. "I refuse to put in anything less than the best I can do."

"We're just freshmen, you know." She flipped open her book, looking for the Romantics. The tinted portrait of Lord Byron stared back at her. "Anyway, you're lucky. I can barely finish writing the words for the song we're supposed to be doing for Composition class."

"Have you gotten a melody already?"

She blushed. "I was, ah, planning to use the music you wrote for me."

He looked up, pleased and surprised. "You wanted to use that?"

"Um. If you don't mind. Of course I'll credit you properly. In fact, I was thinking… oh, but you'll make fun of me." Christine felt her cheeks heat up even more.

Erik looked at her, hips lips turned upwards into one of his rare brilliant smiles. "Christine, nobody's ever taken an interest in my music this way. Of course I want to hear what you have to say."

"I just wanted to say, perhaps we could work together for my final project? I really liked what you did with the piano, you know, for the piece you recorded. Does it have a title? I think it would be nice, after that day - "

"When I ran away from you?" He had the sense to look abashed.

"Hey, none of that. Water under the bridge, remember?" Christine leaned forward, unable to keep the excitement away from her voice. "But I was thinking, perhaps we can write the words for the music you wrote, and then I can, oh I don't know, maybe, sing it?"

"A collaboration then?"

"Yes. A collaboration." She knew that Erik was remarkably possessive and private about his music; aside from that afternoon in the practice room and the CD he'd given her, she'd not heard any of his other work. Even Raoul was impressed when she let her listen to the CD. "That's Erik?" he asked incredulously when the piano faded into silence. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Philharmonic gives him a call. That's one heck of a piece. And he gave it to you?"

"Yes," she'd said defiantly.

"He must really like you then," Raoul had said.

" - and perhaps you could help me as well," Erik was saying. Christine started, meeting his eyes. "Hello, Christine, are you listening?"

"Sorry, I was a million miles away."

"I noticed. Woolgathering, Nadir would say. That man is a fount of obscure words." Erik tapped his pencil on his notebook. "Anyway, I was saying, perhaps you could also help me. I realize that two minds are better than one, especially for final projects."

"Of course." Christine held out her hand. "Let's shake on it."

Erik's grip was warm and tight, and for a moment, she wanted to envelop him in a hug, wrap her arms around him and keep him close. He looked starved for touch, and Christine resolved, in her heart of hearts, to fill that void.

* * *

_And finally, pieces are falling into place! Don't forget to leave a review - it makes me want to work faster, too. :)_


	7. Confess Your Love and Your Folly

_Thanks to those who've been commenting and encouraging me to continue. You have no idea how much your words mean to me. :) _

_Without further ado, the party we've been waiting for._

* * *

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, a rarity in New York during the autumn months. The crash of the piano keys alerted Nadir from a delightful time going through the books of Destler Corporation. He was glad to confirm that the Board of Directors were still working towards the goal of helping his young protege, instead of driving the corporation to an early grave. They were handpicked, the best of the best, the brightest people that Marcus Destler could find to run his company's day-to-day operations. They had transferred their loyalty to Erik despite the age gap and the relative inexperience of the younger Destler. It helped that Erik was clear with what he wanted, had a sound business sense, and was willing to learn from the older members of the Board. Nadir missed the nights when he was still being called on perform his more esoteric skills set on the less tractable members of the Board.

Nadir made his way down the hallways of the Destler brownstone and quickly went down the steps to the second floor music room. Despite the fact that the room was heavily sound-proofed, the very fact that Erik was playing loud enough for him to hear the music upstairs was enough to pique Nadir's curiosity.

Erik was seated at the large black grand piano that dominated the music room. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the high windows that ran across one side of the room. The boy's eyes were closed, his fingers pounding against the ivory keys as he sang out loud.

_Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, your heart?_  
_As well as your body_  
_Can you lie next to her and confess your love, your love?_  
_As well as your folly_  
_And can you kneel before the king and say I'm clean, I'm clean?_

_Tell me now, where was my fault_  
_In loving you with my whole heart?_

The piano music rose in a rolling wave, threatening to overcome Nadir. Erik's fingers flew into a frenzy, the keys bowing under his command, the melody raw and gaping, like an open wound.

"Erik?"

The boy slammed his hands against the keys, creating an angry, discordant sound that reverberated around the entire room. A cry of anger and rage spilled from his lips. Nadir did not want to come any closer; he'd been present for many of Erik's rages, and he knew better than to approach the boy when he wasn't even close to calm.

"She was meant to be mine!" he cried, pounding against the keys with such force that Nadir winced to see the bruises on Erik's fingers. "She's not yours! Christine, Christine..." His voice dropped as quickly as it had risen, and he sat, fingers lightly touching the piano keys, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

Nadir knew that he just had to let Erik ride out his anger, but he also heard the anguish and heartbreak in the boy's voice. "Erik," he said quietly from the doorway. "Erik, do you want to talk about it?"

Erik turned to him, his bright eyes shining with tears. Words, broken words, came out of lips that were barely able to form them coherently. Nadir listened, and his heart was torn in two for the poor boy in front of him.

* * *

He'd agreed to the party. That was his first mistake.

The second mistake was agreeing to be Christine's date.

He'd never been on a date before. Hell, Erik had never even kissed a girl before! His mother had refused to even touch him for fear of contracting his "disease", and none of the maids or the female servants dared to look at his face, much less stand close enough to touch him. Sure, during his travels in Europe as a teenager (and before his parents' accident which summoned him back to the States), there were women with certain… fetishes, who were interested in what lay beyond the mask. But he'd always spurned them, decided that if he didn't want to get hurt, then he'd stay away from the damn women with their damned charms.

But then came the caveat in his father's will, then came Cathedral College, then came Christine.

If he had the chance to turn back time, he would've run away from it all, hidden in the deepest, darkest hole he could find. He would bury himself in the caverns beneath Paris, or Rome, or even his beloved New York City, just to escape humanity. Fetid, putrid humanity. He'd never asked to be born this way, never asked to be spurned or shunned or be reduced to a shadow. And to think, his closest friends, Raoul and Christine, was the cause of this pain.

He and Christine had arrived at Raoul's penthouse apartment in fashionable SoHo, agreeing to arrive half an hour early to help with the preparations. Erik was slightly impressed with the de Chagny household: the white marble floors and subtle black furniture that could have come out of the pages of Forbes Magazine. Raoul was in the den, instructing the bartender where the various liquors were kept. He'd worn his favorite wine-colored velvet jacket and a rumpled white shirt beneath. Erik felt overdressed in his black coat and crisp white shirt, but Raoul had given him a thumbs up and noted that Christine's hand was firmly gripping Erik's.

That was another thing: Christine insisted on holding his hand. Erik was confused about that. Did she think him unable to navigate the short walk from the sidewalk to the lobby of Raoul's building? Perhaps she needed some guidance; those heels looked precarious, although they made her dancer's legs look long and lithe, and matched the small, silky black dress she wore perfectly. Erik could make out her curves beneath the soft fabric, and blushed as he wondered how she managed to wear everything perfectly. He attempted to tug his hand out of Christine's grip, but she simply held on tighter and gave him a sweet smile to answer his raised eyebrow.

"Nice to see you kids managed to get it all together," Raoul had said. It seemed as though he'd already started drinking at least an hour earlier. He gestured to the rows upon rows of liquor bottles behind him. "Now, what'll you have?"

People trickled in about an hour later. Erik was nursing a half-empty glass of tepid champagne, the bubbles long gone. Christine flitted by his side, occassionally leaving as she greeted a friend or two as they entered through the door. Erik had decided to stand in the shadows in the music room, leaning against the wall and watching the ebb and flow of people. Christine would stand beside him, whisper observations about their schoolmates in his ear and grin as he got the joke. She had quite an acerbic wit that night, and he appreciated her words. She was trying to make him feel less lonely, and he was pleased with the attention.

She also introduced him to her best friend, Marguerite Giry. "Call me Meg," the breathless ingenue with the bright blond hair said, extending her hand in invitation. Erik took in gingerly, wondering why the young girl wasn't afraid of him. She was about a year or two younger than Christine, and her face could easily grace the cover of a magazine. She carried herself like a dancer: back straight, chin held high, a smile playing on her lips. Her blue eyes, however, took in everything: his stance, his tailored suit, his half-mask. "You like costumes then?" she asked, peering closer at his mask.

Christine wrinkled her nose. "Shut up, Meg."

The younger girl laughed. "Sorry. I can see why you like him. He's got that debonair look about him. Handsome, too."

Erik found himself reddening at her words and drained his glass in one gulp. Christine plucked the empty champagne glass from his hand and gave him her own glass of Pinot Noir. "There, hold that while I refill this."

"Christine, I - "

"Oh lighten up, Erik. It's a party." Christine disappeared through the crowd that was starting to gather in the music room and spilling down the adjacent hallway, and Erik found himself alone with Meg Giry.

"So what do you do?" she asked pleasantly, taking a small sip of the artisinal beer in her small hands.

"I study music at Cathedral. Piano and composition. And history."

"Smart. I guess your folks could afford your tuition, huh? Cathedral's scary exclusive. We were so proud when Christine got a scholarship to study there."

"She's a very talented singer," he agreed. He knew from Christine's stories that she lived with a family friend, and that Meg was the daughter. Foster-sisters, perhaps? "There's nobody quite like Christine."

"Yeah, and so you'd better make sure that you don't break her heart, Erik Destler."

He was taken aback. "Pardon me?"

"Look, she likes you. Like, _likes you_ likes you," said Meg fiercely. There was no longer a trace of the vacant, pleasant look on her face. Instead, her expression reminded Erik of how a lioness would look like before pouncing on her prey. "So watch it, Piano Man. She's my best friend. Heck, we might as well be sisters. And I don't want her to get hurt. And I know boys like you - rich and spoiled and used to getting what you want. So if you're just planning on playing with Christine's feelings, then I'll tell you right now to back off before I make your balls into soup."

She likes me? The voice in Erik's head reverberated in surprise. "Meg," he began slowly, certain that the blond ballerina had made a mistake. "I'm certain that you are mistaken. After all - "

"How are my two favorite people in the world?" asked Christine brightly as she came back with a drink in her hand. "Well, two out of the three; Raoul's playing host in the dining room. Well, four, really, if we count your mom, Meg…"

"Hold on to your horses, sister," said Meg, amused that Christine was starting to show signs of inebriation. "I was just talking to Erik over here."

"Ah yeah, you said you were going to give him the interrogation of a lifetime," Christine said with a laugh. "Don't break him, okay? I still need him for my final project."

"I knew you only wanted me for my brain," said Erik.

"Indeed. Smart is sexy."

Erik laughed. "If you say so, Christine."

"I know so," she said. Meg smirked at Erik as she walked away and slipped into the crowd. Christine had snuggled beside Erik, taking his arm and draping it around her shoulders. He could feel the warmth of her skin seeping through the light fabric of his jacket, the press of her body against his side. "You're so comfy, Erik. You could be a great, big pillow!"

"Okay, I think you're done for the evening, Christine," he said, setting the wine glass he'd been holding the entire time on the nearby mantelpiece, and gently plucking the glass in Christine's hand and placing it beside his. "Shall we go get some dinner?"

"I think I saw some hors d'oeuvres earlier," said Christine, taking his hand and tugging him away from his comfortable corner of the room. "Come on, Erik, I'm hungry."

Raoul, as he'd expected, was holding court in the other room. The dining table had been pushed to one side and laden with food, with white-jacketed waiters serving a queue of guests that were already digging into the exquisite food. Smaller tables were set up with around the room, and groups of threes and fours stood around the round tables, eating and drinking as Raoul flitted from table to table, an ever-present whiskey tumbler in his hands.

Christine and Erik, their plates burdened with all sorts of finger food, managed to snag an empty table. Erik gestured to one of the passing waiters for two glasses of water, which was brought promptly to their table. Erik drained one glass deeply, tasting the cleansing hint of lemon and mint in the cool water. Christine gave him a smile as they both began to eat, quietly commenting on the various tidbits on their plates.

Raoul finally arrived at their table and swung his arms around their shoulders. His breath was laced with the scent of alcohol. "Aha! I see that you two lovebirds are having the time of your life. Good work, Destler, I knew you'd finally snare the lovely Miss Daae from the grasps of us mere mortals!"

Erik stuttered; he'd never seen his friend act this way. "De Chagny, I think you're drunk," he said.

"Perhaps, yes, I may be drunk, but I'm no idiot." Raoul's voice was still soft enough not to carry across the room, but people were starting to glance their way. Erik wanted to shout at them; he wanted to shake his fists at these strangers who knew nothing about his friends. "You wrote her the most beautiful piano piece I've ever heard."

"You heard that?"

"She let me listen to it." Raoul's cheeks were flushed. "Damn you, Destler, I thought I had a chance."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Raoul." Erik felt his heart sink towards stomach. He might not be the most astute person in the world, but even he could see where Raoul was going with his meandering speech. On the other side, he could see Christine blanch. "We're friends, Christine and I, same as you and - "

"Oh please," scoffed Raoul angrily. "Anyone with two eyes can see that you have feelings for her. And when you were off, nursing your imagined wounds, all she ever talked about was 'Erik this' and 'Erik that' and oh god, I was so sick of it!"

"Raoul," said Christine. "Come on. You need a time out."

Raoul swung his head to look at Christine with bleary eyes. "And you! Christine, please. Show some compassion."

"All right, Raoul, that's enough." Christine might have been tipsy before, but she was sober now. She tugged at his hand, and his arm slipped off Erik's shoulders. She led him away from the table, shooting Erik a look that seemed to ask, "Please, let me take care of this." He nodded, allowing her to take Raoul away from the room and somewhere private. He stared sadly at the remnants of the food in front of him, all appetite gone.

Meg appeared beside him, a sad smile on her face. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I am concerned for my friends," he said.

"Yes, but Christine's the best person to deal with this right now," she said. "You play the piano, right?" He nodded mutely. "Why don't you come and play the piano for us?"

Erik acquiesed, even though his heart wanted to run after Raoul and Christine. Yes, he had feelings for Christine, but he never thought, in his wildest dreams, that she would ever return them. Raoul had every right to want her - who wouldn't? But Raoul was also his friend, and he did not want to get in the way of his friends' happiness. And after all, wouldn't Christine be better off with Raoul? He was perfect, after all. Not like the grotesque monstrosity that was Erik.

Before he could say anything, he found himself in front of the baby grand piano in the de Chagny music room. An appreciative crowd had gathered. Erik licked his lips, tried to buy some time. But Meg had opened the lid and the keys twinkled invitingly in the amber-hued lights. Stroking the keys gently, he launched into a rendition of "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room".

_It's not a silly little moment_  
_It's not the storm before the calm_  
_This is the deep and dying breath_  
_Of this love that we've been working on_

His smoky voice wrapped around the room like an invitation. Slowly, couples joined on the floor, arms around waists, heads against shoulders, bodies pressed against each other in invitation. Erik allowed the music to wash over them, conjuring up smoke and shadow and putting his soul into each and every biting word.

_We're going down_  
_And you can see it soon_  
_We're going down_  
_And you know that we're doomed_  
_My dear we're slow dancing in a burning room_

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg lean against the piano and pick up the second verse. She had a melodious voice. Nothing near what Christine had, but pleasant enough. Her voice caressed the words like their were made of glass, and he played the piano to match her tone. Their voices entwined at the coda.

_Go cry about it, why don't you?_  
_My dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room_

He played out the last few bars, then launched into another song, trying to pour his own confessions into the words. He wondered if this was how Christine felt when she tried to write her songs, trying to find the perfect fit between lyrics and melody.

_Ninety miles outside Chicago_  
_I can't stop driving, I don't know why_  
_So many questions, I need an answer_  
_Two years later, you're still on my mind_

The crowd murmured appreciatively, and a few voices began to sing along as well. Erik smiled despite himself. The music was drawing him in, tugging him into the undertow.

_Someday we'll know if love can move a mountain_  
_Someday we'll know why the sky is blue_  
_Someday I'll know why I wasn't meant for you_

Erik had been taken away by the song, his mind merging perfectly with his hands, his eyes closed as he allowed himself to drown in the music in his mind. As such, he didn't see the moment when Raoul and Christine returned to the periphery of the crowd, and he didn't see Raoul press Christine against the wall, didn't see Raoul lean down and devour Christine's lips with his own.

* * *

_The songs are, in order of appearance: "White Blank Page" by Mumford and Sons, "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" by John Mayer, and "Someday We'll Know" by The New Radicals. (Thanks, **anon**, for that comment correcting me. My bad.)_

_And sorry for leaving you with a cliffhanger. (Well, no, I'm not really sorry.) I'll try to update in the next few days, or when I hit 35 comments, whichever one comes first. _

_Once again, reviews make me write faster, so I'm looking forward to reading yours. _


	8. Pieces Fall Where They May

_Thank you for all the wonderful comments you left. :) I think we're finally getting some traction here. Please ask your friends to read this as well - I really want to know what other people think._

_Also, has everyone seen the Classical Brits 2012 performance of Ramin and Sierra, as well as their Treesong jamming session with Sierra's dad? So adorbs! _

_Anyway, here's the next installment. Enjoy!_

* * *

It was Meg who noticed it first. Her voice tapered to a whisper as her eyes widened at the scene. It was unmistakable: Raoul and Christine! Erik looked up when he noticed Meg had ceased singing, and his fingers stilled atop the piano keys. Around them, the crowd parted, as if a great creature had passed through, creating a direct path from the piano to the corner of the room. Erik felt his mouth open, his eyes widening as he struggled to make sense of the scene in front of him.

Christine struggled from beneath Raoul and pushed the other man aside. Her hair was dishevelled and her cheeks were flushed and red. "Erik," she said, wiping the back of her hand against her cheek. "Erik, it's not what you think."

Erik felt as though he was watching the whole scene from behind a film camera, or seated comfortably in front of a television screen. He was no longer fully present in the room: in fact, he could almost watch himself talk and move and rant and rave with a kind of detached amusement. He stood up and stalked towards Christine and Raoul.

Christine stood in front of him, and he could see the tracks of tears shining down her cheeks. He did not feel anything for the girl in front of him - the music that she had inspired, the words of love that swam around his head like shining silver links had left him, had deserted the frightening echoes in his mind. She was still beautiful, yes, in the way that a mannequin is beautiful, or an empty sea shell. He pushed her aside. Meg caught her as she stumbled backwards; Meg's eyes held nothing but pity. She knew how scenes like these played out.

Erik stood in front of Raoul, whose face was flushed with guilt. Despite his distance from the other boy, he could smell the whiskey on de Chagny's breath, could see the too-bright light in his eyes, the unsteady stance as he swayed in front of Erik. "You disgust me," Erik growled. Quicker than lightning, he drew his arm back and punched Raoul in the jaw. There was a sickening crack as bone met bone. The glass in Raoul's hand shattered against the marble floor just a split second before he slammed against the surface, limp as a wet rag.

Erik stalked out of the room and made his way towards the elaborate lobby, where the penthouse lift was located. The entire apartment was silent as his classmates and schoolmates watched him walk towards the lift and punch the downward button. Nobody dared to even breath.

He felt a slim hand on his shoulder, and felt the rage inside him rise and boil over. He reached over and gripped her wrist tightly as he spun around; she cried out in surprise and pain. It was Meg.

"What do you want?"

"I…" The other girl's eyes were wide and frightened. "I'm sorry about Christine."

The elevator pinged and the shiny metal doors split open. Erik stared at her, and without another word, released her wrist and stepped into the elevator. He waited for the doors to close and the lift to move downwards before allowing tears to spill down his cheeks.

* * *

Nadir rubbed his forehead with his fingers as he considered his young charge. Erik had finished telling him his story and he now slumped in his seat, nothing more than a shadow of his former self. Nadir considered him carefully. Ever since he befriended Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae, Erik had slowly come out of his shell. The boy had vacillated from white-hot temper to ice-cold indifference, and it was good that he was learning how to approach other people without wanting to punch the living daylights out of them. Before his assault on Raoul, Erik had gone at least five months without getting into a physical altercation. And now…

Well, it was plain to see that Erik was shattered. Perhaps he thought he had a chance to be loved by Christine - he was never aware of the fickle nature of women, and especially women as beautiful as Christine. And he'd never had any friends of his age; Erik was never very good with other people. Nadir pondered on the problem for awhile, before coming to a solution.

"Well, it seems we have a problem here, Mr. Destler," he said, addressing Erik's prone figure. The boy had buried his face into a pillow and was doing a very appropriate impression of an ostrich burying its head in sand.

"No shit," said Erik, his voice muffled. His knuckles still throbbed with the impact of punching Raoul, and his fingers were sore and swollen after playing the piano for so long.

"First things first: do you still wish to continue at Cathedral?"

Erik shook his head.

"Do you wish to continue your studies elsewhere?"

Another head shake.

"Do you wish to do anything with your life at all?"

Another head shake.

Nadir rubbed his forehead once more, wondering when, in his varied and interesting career, did the concerns of an eighteen-year-old become the paramount thing in his life. Still, this was Erik. He was unsure whether it was because he grew up forced to be a recluse or because he was so used to being inside his head that his imagination simply did not translate into the real world, but he had been the boy's guardian for so long that he knew that he had to leave Erik alone for awhile before he could get some semblance of logic and rationality.

Carefully, he stretched out and stood up from the chair to get some medical supplies. Erik's hand was starting to swell and turn into interesting shades of scarlet and purple. The boy had pretty much passed out on the couch from exhaustion, and Nadir could get to work without much interruption.

Nadir crossed the halls quickly and entered his own room. It was plain and utilitarian, without much in the way of personal effects. He entered the en suite and grabbed his first aid kit and some bandages and went back to the other room. He carefully shifted Erik to his side so that he could remove the mask from the boy's face. Getting to work, he swiftly cleaned and medicated Erik's punching hand, and wrapped it tightly with gauze. Then he set to work cleaning Erik's mangled face, blotting away the swelling and moisture that had formed over the open wounds. He'd left the mask in place for far too long. Nadir unscrewed the tops of several jars and carefully applied the various medications on Erik's wounds. The boy snuffled uncomfortably, but remained asleep.

When he was done with Erik's ablutions, Nadir quietly packed up the medication and gauze and laid the pale half-mask beside Erik, knowing that the boy would see it when he awakened. He dearly wished that the girl had not broken Erik's heart that night; he had a feeling that she wouldn't view the boy's deformities the way the Destlers did. Before tonight, Nadir was certain that salvation lay in the young woman's hands. But after her betrayal tonight…

Well, it was best not to think about it.

* * *

Christine sat in the small apartment kitchen in her fraying bathrobe, a mug of sweet, warm tea cradled in her hands. Her eyes were puffy and painful from crying. Meg sat in front of her, her legs drawn up and her own mug of tea in her hands. It was two in the morning, and the neighborhood was asleep. Moonlight streamed through the slats of the kitchen blinds, and blended with the single yellow bulb above the kitchen table. Christine felt drained and tired, and her feet hurt from the heels. She hated the night.

"He must hate me now, Meggy," she said, staring into her cup. The pale liquid reflected the lamplight above her.

"Well you have to admit, Chris, it didn't look too good from where he was seated," said Meg quietly.

"Raoul forced me!" Christine spat out angrily. She pulled up her sleeves to show the bruises purpling on her arms. "He was drunk and he held me against the wall and - oh god, Meg, I was so scared he would hurt Erik!"

Meg placed her mug on the table and reached over to touch the bruises lightly. "You'll have to cover those up until they fade." Her eyes were sympathetic. "I'm so sorry, Chris. Have you spoken to Erik?"

"No. He's not answering his phone. I'm afraid I've lost him even before I had the chance."

Meg pursed her lips. "He seems like he has quite the temper, Chris."

Christine raised an eyebrow. "He'd never hurt me, Meg."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. Erik is many things - quick to anger, too sensitive for his own good, anti-social - but he's not violent."

"Did you really think that Raoul wouldn't hurt you tonight either?"

"Raoul was drunk, Meggy. It wasn't his fault."

It was too much. Meg couldn't stand hearing her friend this way. "Christine! Listen to yourself. You've been hurt and assaulted and made to do things against your will tonight and you're still trying to defend the bastard. What is wrong with you?"

Christine stared at her best friend and found herself giggling hysterically. "Oh, Meg. I don't know what's wrong with me. Did you know, earlier tonight, Raoul asked me, 'I don't get it. I don't see what you see in Erik.' And to be honest, I have no idea either."

"And yet, you seem to be enchanted with the boy."

"I know."

"And what do you mean to do about it?"

Christine considered her tea, which was rapidly cooling. "I have to tell him. I have to explain myself. It's all a gross misunderstanding. And then I have to talk to Raoul."

"Oh Christine." Meg shook her head. "You're wonderfully naive."

"Just because I don't think all boys are asshats doesn't mean that I've naive."

"No, but you should really start thinking that all boys are asshats. There are just different degrees of asshattery."

Christine grinned. "And you should know, right?"

Meg gave her a wink. "I've got an advanced degree in finding out who's worth my time and who's not."

They both raised their mugs in a toast. Christine took a long drink of her tea. Meg watched her over the rim of her mug. "You okay now?" she asked.

Christine nodded. "I just… oh Meg, you might think I'm crazy, but I swear, that moment when I saw Erik, at the piano tonight, when he saw me… his eyes held all the sadness in the world."

* * *

_Thanks so much for reading. Once again, looking forward to your reviews. More reviews = more love. _


	9. Regrets and Grievances

_I apologize for the delay in posting. I was out of the city for the week (went up to the mountains for a writing retreat) and so I didn't have access to the Internet. But it's all good now, and to reward you for your patience, here's a rather long chapter. Thanks for waiting, and enjoy!_

_(Although I'm not sure why you'd enjoy, since it's all angst, but hey! That's what fanfic is for.)_

* * *

Weak light filtered through the blinds. Erik cracked open one eye, then the other, and wondered why his mouth and throat felt as though they were scraped with sandpaper. His arms and hands ached. For a moment, he thought he was going to throw up, but the feeling passed. Now he felt hollow and empty, a straw man stuffed with nothing but hay. It took a few seconds for him to realize where he was: the anteroom attached to the music studio, where there was a couch and some bean bags. He had passed out on the couch after telling last night's tale to Nadir.

Nadir!

He sat up quickly, the room spinning around him as he fought back hunger, exhaustion, and vertigo. He lifted a hand to his face, idly noting that it was neatly bandaged, and felt the wounded side of his face. My mask! he thought panickedly, his eyes sweeping the room. He saw the mask on the low table beside the couch, and quickly donned it on, breathing a sigh of relief. He could show himself to the world.

But wait. Christine… and Raoul. The party.

The kiss.

Memories crashed against his mind: Raoul's party, his drunken behavior, Christine's attempt at pacifying him. Playing the piano for an audience for the first time. Raoul and Christine, in the shadows, kissing.

Bile rose up to his throat, and he gagged. _Keep it down, keep it down. Don't let them see your weakness._ He felt the room close around him, the walls seemingly moving to hold him in. His heart hammered a staccato beat in his chest. He rode the wave of nausea, closing his eyes and breathing in and out, in and out, in and out. Slowly, he could feel his heart rate slow down, his lungs no longer gasping for air. Only a faint taint of bitterness remained in his mouth.

He thought Christine liked him: the small touches, the private smiles, the request to work together for their final projects. He thought that when a girl asked you to be their date to a party, that they were willing to be seen in public together with you, it meant that they liked you. He might not have superb social skills, but he'd observed enough people to be aware of how relationships worked. It seemed that there was a definite gap between theory and practice.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:45 in the morning. He gritted his teeth. It was a Sunday, he was certain, and the thought of seeing Christine and Raoul the next day made his hackles rise. They lied to him. They lied! Erik balled his hands into fists, feeling the wounds stretch against the seams, the swelling flaring up once more beneath the bandages. This was why he hated the world. This was why he didn't want to go to college in the first place. (Damn his father and his last will! Damn his parents! Damn the universe!)

If there was something Erik was certain of, it was that he couldn't stay another day. Finally getting to his feet, he stormed out of the room and started making his way towards his bedroom. He didn't need much, and goodness knows he'd set up enough fake bank accounts during his teenage years running away from home, with only Nadir by his side, that he could easily disappear.

Damn the old fool and his corporation and his inheritance.

He needed to get away.

* * *

Raoul woke up with a pounding headache and an aching jaw. He was also, oddly enough, lying on the couch instead of in his bed. Disoriented, he gingerly touched his face, where most of the pain seemed to be centered. He ran careful fingers along the side of his jaw, and felt the swelling along the sides. He felt like someone threw a mean right hook against his face.

Come to think of it…

Trying not to disturb the delicate equilibrium of his body, Raoul carefully sat up and surveyed the damage. He was in the living room, still wearing the same clothes that he wore the night before. His mouth felt as though it was filled with cotton, and his eyes squinted in the sunlight that streamed through the tall French windows that lined one of the walls. Half-empty glasses of varying sizes and shapes were scattered all over the tables and on the floor. Sticky liquid pooled and dried on the hardwood floors. A lone disco light still spun awkwardly in one corner of the room. The Killers were playing over the surround sound speakers installed in the room.

How did he get here? And will Philippe kill him when he sees the damage?

Painfully getting to his feet, Raoul staggered to the kitchen. Most of the common areas of the penthouse - the living room, the dining areas, the kitchen - were trashed. He needed to call housekeeping services later that day. He stared at the empty bottles of liquor lined across the kitchen island. Someone had seen fit to finish his brother's best whiskey.

Wait.

He vaguely remembered seeing Christine glide into the room in Erik's arms; the other boy looked simultaneously frightened and thrilled at the girl holding on to his arm. He remembered taking swig after swig of whiskey in an effort to drown out the light in Christine's eyes as she orbited around Erik like a planet around a star. He remembered walking away from them during dinner, unable to keep his anger down.

He'd always nursed an affection for Christine. She was remarkably unpretentious, unlike the high society girls that Philippe always foisted off on him. She was beautiful, but seemed unaware of her beauty, which made her more attractive in his eyes. She could joke around with him and Erik like the best of the boys, but she also nursed a soft spot for the broken-hearted and the strays. He always let her know that he was there for her - especially when Erik decided to throw that temper tantrum after her comment about his parents - and hoped that she might see him as something more than a friend. But it seemed that she'd taken a shining to Erik instead.

_But why Erik?_ Raoul buried his head in his hands as the previous evening came back to his mind like jagged shards of memory.

Christine had come after him. That much he was certain. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and tried to explain. "He's… he's never known anyone to care about him his entire life," she'd said about Erik. "And I want to show him that it's possible."

"But what about me, Chrissy?" He hated the break in his voice, the pleading tone.

"You're my friend, Raoul. And I care deeply about you. But Erik… I think, given a chance, I could fall in love with him."

"No!" He wasn't sure if it was him or the alcohol talking already; but then again, didn't alcohol just emphasize feelings and actions that were already bubbling beneath the surface, the emotiosn that were kept in careful control all the time. "No! Chrissy, you belong with me!"

How did his fingers wrap around her arms? How did he end up pushing her against the wall so that her warm body was lined up against his? She was soft and small and warm in his arms, her eyes wide with terror. "Raoul, let me go," she'd said. "Please let me go."

And then he'd bent down and he was kissing her, the way he'd always dreamt about kissing Christine, her pale pink lips parting to allow him access to her soul. He drank her up like a thirsty man would drink water, soothing his parched throat. He never felt her trying to push him away, never felt her struggle against his grip.

It was only when Erik punched him -

It was Erik who punched him!

Raoul staggered towards the fridge to grab an ice pack. Pressing the unforgiving coldness of the pack against his jaw was a relief, and with it, a revelation. Erik was right. He was disgusting.

Growing up with his older brother for guidance, Raoul had always been cautioned about protecting the family name. "Being a de Chagny means something," Philippe had always said. "Sure, we can have fun, but there are always limits. People look up to us as examples. And we always have to be the right example for the right people."

And yet, last night, in front of his friends and classmates, Raoul did something that brought shame to his family's name. And quite possibly destroyed his friendship with two of the most important people in his life.

* * *

Christine sat behind the reception desk at the Garnier School of Dance. Sundays were always slow days: only half as many classes, and for the most part, she could comfortably do her weekend assignments in between manning the desk, figuring out schedules, and sorting out payments for the classes. Beyond the small corner of the desk, where she was wedged between an old-fashioned radiator and a rather fragile shelf filled with old magazines, she could hear the music that accompanied the various dance classes. There was the scrape of feet against the wooden floorboards, the tick-tick-tick of the metronome carefully counting out beats, the occasional thump of Aunt Giry's cane as she made a point to the girls in her class.

But today, she was just staring at the same page in her freshman History book for the tenth time in the last five minutes. None of the words were making sense to her. Resisting the urge to bang her head against the desk, she closed her book and stared at the computer screen in front of her. She had the school's schedule up front, in case Aunt Giry decided to make a surprise visit during the day. But beyond the Excel sheet, Christine had Facebook and Twitter and her AIM console online.

Disconsolately, she stared at her newsfeed, watching the screen update periodically. Nothing much was happening - just the usual status messages about who ate what, and where, and the accompanying grainy photograph as proof.

Several of their classmates from Cathedral had already posted photographs from last night's party. Christine winced at the photos. _So romantic!_ Sorelli wrote beneath an illuminated photograph of Erik seated at the piano, his fingers moving across the keys as their classmates swirled and danced around him. He looked angelic - his head was thrown back, his hair artfully disarrayed, the photograph catching him in mid-song.

She scrolled further down, looking for last night's Facebook updates. Many of her Cathedral College friends were commenting on the food, the drinks, the music, the opportunity to get to know other people in a less formal setting. And then the status messages about the fight started to show up.

_God, that Christine's sure gotten too big for her britches._

_Why would two of the most eligible bachelors at Cathedral fight over such an ugly bitch like Christine?_

_If she's not gonna take Erik, I'm gonna have a piece of that, never mind the mask. I like my boys with a little kink on the side._

And then:

_Fight! Erik punched Raoul in the face. Talk about the rules of hospitality_. Beneath that were 67 comments, mostly from classmates who had seen or heard about the fight and were throwing in their two cents' worth.

Christine gritted her teeth and clicked to see all the comments. She felt her entire body grow cold. Nobody had seen Raoul force her, nobody had noticed him overpowering her. The shadows were enough for him to hide the evidence of his hands all over her body, his mouth swallowing her pleas. She started shaking in her seat, tears welling up in her eyes. It was so unfair! It wasn't her fault! She hovered the mouse pointer over the browser window and clicked it shut. She couldn't read anything anymore.

And then her heart sank even more. Raoul was friends with these people as well. (Erik, despite being more sociable in the last few months compared to his entire life, refused to get a Facebook account. The school already had to twist his arm to just sign up for an email address.) Raoul would see all of the messages and photos and comments. And he would… get angry at her? Hurt her again? Punish her?

Despite the warmth in the studio, Christine wrapped her hands around herself, fingers gripping her arms. The bruises ached beneath her touch, despite being separated from her hands by layers of clothing. She desperately wanted to run away, to disappear. Was it so wrong to like Raoul as a friend and Erik as (possibly) more than a friend? Was it her fault that they'd fought in the first place?

Was it her fault that Raoul did what he did?

Christine found her thoughts swirling downwards, disappearing into a maelstrom of emotions and shadows. She could still feel Raoul's fingers gripping her, holding her in place like a rag doll. She could still feel the bruising force of his lips against hers, the heat of whiskey on his breath, the slurred words of adoration falling from his lips. She shuddered. It was too near, too real to be quickly banished by a mug of tea and girl talk.

Her train of thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the Garnier office phone. Trying to compose herself, she reached over and plucked the handset from its cradle and pressed it against her ear. "Good morning, Garnier School of Dance. How may I help you?"

"Christine Daae?" said a deep voice, laced with a faint Middle Eastern accent.

"Speaking. May I know who this is?"

"This is Nadir Khan, Erik Destler's guardian." Christine immediately felt a stone settle in the pit of her stomach. She sat up straighter and grabbed a pencil and a spare piece of paper.

"Is Erik all right?" she asked.

"That's the thing I wanted to know, Miss Daae." She could almost imagine the look of disappointment in the older man's face. She'd met Nadir several times over the course of her friendship with Erik, and she knew that he was not a man to be trifled with. "Erik told me of the events that transpired at the de Chagny party."

"Sir, I swear, it was not my intention to - "

"I'm not calling to inquire about your intentions, Miss Daae. But suffice to say that, I suspect, because of the events that transpired last night, it seems that Erik has left."

"What?"

"Erik's missing, Miss Daae. He ran away this morning, and I do not know where he is. I was hoping you could tell me."

* * *

_And another cliffie! Comments and constructive critiques are welcome. Let me know what you think. :)_

_Oh, and also: I'm part of an ongoing Broadway RP on Tumblr, and I'm playing Christine Daae. If you want to follow the stories or join in the fun, check out onbroadway-rp {dot} tumblr {dot} com_


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